Chapter 6 Chapter Six

Richard Becker was sitting in a lounge at the British Consulate, waiting for the consul to receive him after he had finished talking with others. In the morning, he disembarked from the steamer "Empress of India", disembarked, and completed the customs formalities for his luggage.He carried almost nothing but books, and pajamas and shirts were scattered among them, as if they had been put there as an afterthought. The Empress of India arrived on time.Richard originally estimated two more days—because small cargo ships like the "India Queen" are often delayed—now, he has two days in his hands to do other things before passing through Baghdad to reach his final goal The ancient man-made mound of Aswad - the site of the ancient city of Murik.

The preparations for these two days have been arranged.A mound near the coast of Kuwait, famous for its ancient relics, had attracted him many years ago.This is God's will, give him the opportunity to go there for some investigation. He drove to the airport hotel and inquired about the route to Kuwait.There was a ten o'clock flight the next morning, he learned, and he could spend the day there before returning.Everything is going smooth.Of course, some procedures must be done, such as the entry visa to Kuwait and the exit visa.He had to turn to the British Consulate for these matters.The Consul General in Basra was Mr. Clayton, whom Richard had met in Persia some years before.It was a pleasure to see him here again, Richard thought.

A consulate has several populations.There is a gate for cars to enter and exit.There is also a small gate leading from the garden to the road next to the Arabian Saudi River.The population of consulate offices is on the street.Richard walked in and handed his card to the person on duty.He was told that the consul general was meeting with guests, but it would end soon.He was then directed to a small lounge on the left side of the hallway.This corridor leads directly from the entrance to the front garden. There are already several people waiting to be interviewed in the lounge.Richard barely glanced at them.For, no matter what the circumstances, people, no matter who they were, seldom interested him.He'd be more interested in a shard of ancient pottery than in a person born somewhere in the twentieth century AD.

He was blissfully lost in thought.He thought of certain forms of the Mali alphabet, and of the migration of the tribe of Benjamunet in 1750 BC. It is difficult to say exactly what made him conscious of the situation and the people around him, but first of all he was uneasy, nervous.He felt, although not very sure, but already aware of the atmosphere.He couldn't say anything specific about it, but this atmosphere did exist, that's right.The atmosphere reminded him of the years in the last war.On one occasion in particular, he and two comrades parachuted out of a plane, waiting for the moment to launch their campaign in the chilly hours before dawn.Morale was low then; they were well aware of the grave dangers of doing the work, and their muscles trembled with dread that they would not succeed.And now he felt this unbearable, almost imperceptible atmosphere again.

It's a frightening atmosphere... At the first moment, this kind of thinking was only subconscious, and half of his mind was still focused on thinking about the things in BC.However, the atmosphere in his surroundings at present is very attractive to him. Someone in this small room is terrified... He looked around.An Arab man in a shabby khaki jacket was twirling amber rosary beads with his fingers carelessly, counting incessantly.A stout Englishman with a gray beard—like a business traveler—was jotting down figures in a little notebook, looking very absorbed and surly.There was a thin, tired-looking man with dark skin, sitting quietly against the back of a chair, with a calm and indifferent expression on his face.There was another guy who looked like an Iraqi clerk.In addition, there is an old Persian man in a fat snow robe.It seems that they don't care about everything around them.

The crisp sound of the amber rosary has a certain rhythm, which sounds very unusual and familiar.Richard pulled himself together and pulled himself together. He had almost fallen asleep just now.Short—long—long—short—this is code—no doubt sending a signal in code.He was familiar with codes, and part of his job in wartime was sending and receiving signals using them.He understood the signal very easily: the owl.Florie Utterton.hell!Yes, it is, the signal is still repeating, Floriet Eaton.The code signal was sent, or typed, by a ragged Arab.Hey, what's going on here?owl.Eaton.owl. " Owl was his Eton school nickname.When the family sent him to school, he wore a pair of very large, strong glasses.

He looked at the Arab sitting across the room, carefully observing his appearance - striped cloth robe - worn khaki coat - and a tattered hand-woven red scarf, covered with needles. hole.Thousands of such people can be seen by the river.The man's eyes met his, expressionless, without any expression of recognition, but the rosary was still beating. "Walker is here. Ready for action. Dangerous." Walker?Walker?Of course it is him!Walker - Carmichael!Was that child born or raised in some remote place—Turkestan, or Afghanistan? Richard took out his pipe and took a puff--looked into the bowl, then tapped in a nearby ashtray: call received.

Then, things happened quickly.Afterwards, Richard had a hard time remembering what happened. The Arab in the battered army jacket stood up and walked towards the door, tripped as he passed Richard, and reached out to grab Richard so he wouldn't fall to the floor.Then he steadied himself, apologized, and headed for the door again. Then things were so strange, and happening so quickly, that Richard felt that this was not so much a scene in real life as a scene on the screen.The chubby business traveler put down his notebook and fumbled for something in his coat pocket.With his fat body and thin coat, it took him a second or two to get the stuff out, and within that second or two Richard made the move.As soon as the man raised the revolver, Richard sent the gun flying with his fist, sending the bullet into the floor.

By this time the Arab had come out of the room, turned the corner, and headed for the consul's office.However, he stopped suddenly, turned around, ran quickly towards the gate he came in, and disappeared into the bustling street. Richard was clutching the fat man's arm when the consulate guards ran up to him.Others in the room behaved differently.The Iraqi employee jumped up in fright and kept trembling, the dark and thin man was dumbfounded, and the old Persian stared straight ahead, his body motionless. Richard said: "What the hell are you gesturing around with a revolver?"

The fat man only paused for a moment, and then said rather sadly in a London accent: "I'm sorry, man, it was a complete accident, I was so clumsy." "Nonsense. You're going to shoot that Arab who just ran out." "No, no, man, I'm not going to shoot him, I'm just trying to scare him. There's an Arab who tricked me with some fake curios and I suddenly recognized him. I'm just Just kidding." Richard Becker was a very private man, and he didn't like to attract people's attention in public.His character instinctively led him to accept this superficial explanation, and if he did not accept it, what was there to prove?Will old buddy Carmichael the Walker thank him for making this a big deal?Assuming that Carmichael was engaged in some secret espionage activities, he probably would not agree to do so.

Richard let go of the man's arm.He noticed that the man was sweating. The guard at the consulate charged the man with agitated expressions.He said that weapons should not be brought into the British consulate at all, it is not allowed and the consul will be angry. "I'm sorry," said the fat man, "a little accident—that's how it is." He slipped some money into the guard's hand.The guard angrily pushed the money back. "I'd better get out of here," said the fat man. "I'm not going to wait here to see the consul." He produced a business card and thrust it abruptly at Richard. "Here's my business card. I'm staying at the airport hotel. If there's anything wrong, please reach out to me. But, it really was an accident. I mean, if you know what I mean, I was just just kidding." Richard watched reluctantly as he swaggered out of the house and turned the corner into the street. He hoped he had done nothing wrong.But it is very difficult for a man to know what to do when he is in the situation he is in and has no idea of ​​the cause of the matter. "Mr. Clayton is free now," said the guard. Richard followed the guard down the aisle.The circle of sunlight coming in from the other side of the hall grew larger and larger.The consul's room is at the end of the corridor on the right. Mr. Clayton sat behind a desk to receive Richard.He was a quiet man, with graying hair and a pensive face. "I don't know if you remember me?" Richard said. "I met you in Tehran two years ago." "Of course I do," said Mrs. Clayton, shaking hands with Baker. "We went to the market together, and you bought some nice rugs." When Mrs. Clayton was not shopping herself, she was most willing to encourage friends and acquaintances to haggle at the local mall.She knows prices perfectly and is excellent at haggling. "That was one of the most satisfying purchases I've ever made," said Richard, "with your help." "Becker wants to fly to Kuwait tomorrow," said Gerald Clayton. "I've told him to stay overnight with us." "But if it's inconvenient..." said Richard. "No inconvenience, of course," said Mrs. Clayton, "but you won't have the best room, because Captain Crosby already has it. But we'll make you very comfortable. You don't want to buy it." Just a nice Kuwaiti box? There are some nice boxes in the mall now. Gerald won't let me buy any more here, though it would be useful for packing extra blankets." "You've got three, my dear," said Clayton softly. "Becker, if you'll excuse me now, I have to go back to my office. There seems to be something going on in the office outside. As far as I know, someone Pulled out his revolver and fired a shot." "Probably the local chiefs," said Mrs. Clayton, "they're always so excited and very fond of guns." "On the contrary," said Richard, "it's an Englishman. It looks like he's trying to kill an Arab." He added calmly, "I put his arm on him." "You're involved, then," said Clayton. "I didn't know it." He took a card from his pocket. "Enfield-Achilles & Co. Robert Hall, I guess that's his name. I don't know why he wants to see me. He's not drunk?" "He said he was joking," Richard said flatly, "and, besides, the gun went off by accident." Clayton raised his eyebrows. "Business tourists generally don't carry loaded guns in their pockets," he said. Richard could see that Coryton was no fool. "Maybe I shouldn't have let him out of here then." "It's hard to know what to do when something like this happens. The guy he's going to hit isn't hurt?" "No." "Isn't it best to let this matter go?" "I think, is there something hidden behind it?" "Yes, yes, I think so too." Clayton looked a little absent-minded. "Well, I have to go right back," he said, and hurried away. Mrs. Clayton led Richard into the drawing room.It was a large room, with green cushions on the sofa, and green curtains on the windows, and Mrs. Clayton asked him if he would like coffee or beer, and he chose beer.After a while, the cold beer was served, and it tasted cool and comfortable. Mrs. Clayton asked him why he was going to Kuwait.He answered. Mrs. Clayton asked again why he was not yet married.Richard said he was not fit to marry.To which Mrs. Cowington said briskly: "Nonsense. A lot of archaeologists have made good husbands—has any young women come to the digs lately?" Richard said one or two, and Burnsford Mrs. Jones, of course, was one. Mrs. Clayton asked him, hopefully, if any of the girls who came were pretty.Richard said he didn't know because he hadn't met them, and said they didn't have much work experience. For some reason, this made Mrs. Clayton laugh. Presently a stocky man of short stature came in, with a somewhat rude manner, and Mrs. Clayton introduced him as Captain Crosby.She added that Mr. Becker is an archaeologist who excavates the most interesting things thousands of years ago.Captain Crosby said he would never understand how archaeologists could be sure how old he was saying something.He laughed and said that in the past he always thought that they must be the best liars.Richard looked at him somewhat disgustedly.Captain Crosby added that he now thought it couldn't be said that way, but how on earth could an archaeologist know how old something was?Richard said it took a lot of time to explain.Mrs. Clayton immediately showed him to his room. "He's a nice fellow," said Mrs. Clayton, "but not very polite. He doesn't know anything about culture." Richard found his room to be very comfortable, and therefore his opinion of his mistress, Mrs. Clayton, was higher than before. He fumbled in his coat pocket and found a folded dirty paper.He looked at this piece of paper in amazement, because he knew very well that there was no such piece of paper in his pocket early in the morning. He remembered how the Arab caught himself when he stumbled.The man was very dexterous, and he might have slipped the piece of paper into his pocket without him noticing. He opened the slip of paper.The paper was dirty, and it seemed that it had been folded several times. There were six words on it, which were illegible. The content was: Major John Wilberforce introduced a hard-working worker named Ahmed Mohammed.This person can drive a truck, can also do minor repairs, is very honest and reliable - in fact, this is a common Eastern "note", or letter of introduction.The date of signing was a year and a half ago, and like the usual letter of introduction, it was carefully preserved by the holder of the letter of introduction. Richard's brows were furrowed, and in accordance with his habit of strictly methodical deliberation, he recalled scene by scene what had happened this morning. He is now pretty sure that Walker - Carmichael feared his life was in danger.He was hunted down and fled into the consulate.why?In search of safe shelter?But, on the contrary, he was threatened more imminently.The enemy, or the agent of the enemy, awaits him.The business tourist must have been on a special mission—willing to shoot Carmichael at the risk of being in the consulate in full view.So this must be a very urgent situation.And Carmichael turned to his old classmate for help, and managed to get this superficially authentic document into his hands.Therefore, this document must be very important.If Carmichael's opponents had captured him and found the documents out of his possession, they would no doubt have deduced the facts and tracked down the person or persons to whom Carmichael might in fact have passed them on. personal. So what about Richard Becker? He could give this document to Clayton, His Majesty's representative. Or he could keep it to himself and wait for Camikel to come to him for Sufee. After a few minutes of thinking, he decided on the latter. But first he took precautions. He tore off half a blank sheet of paper from an old letter, sat down and rewrote a letter of introduction to the truck driver, roughly the same words, but different wording--if the original letter was a contact code, then it would not have been rewritten. It would be a leak—of course, there is a possibility that a secret letter was written in secret ink on the original letter. Then he smudged the paper he had written on with the dust of his shoes—rubbing it in his hands, folding it and folding it—until it seemed, from its age and degree of stain, So far. So, he crumpled up the letter paper and put it in his coat pocket again. He stared at the original letter paper for a long time, thinking about various ways to deal with it, and constantly denying his own views. Finally, with a smile, he folded and folded the letter until it was crumpled into a small ball.Then he took a strip of putty from his bag (he always takes it with him when he travels), cut a piece of oilcloth from his plastic bag, wrapped the little ball in the oilcloth, stuffed it into the putty, After it was finished, I rubbed it with my hands a few times, and then took a few more shots to make the surface very smooth.Then, he stamped a stamp on the clay with a cylindrical stamp that he carried with him. Then, with a serious expression, he admired his masterpiece. The pattern on the seal is: a beautiful statue of the sun god Shamashi wearing the sword of justice. "Let's hope it's a good omen," he said to himself. That night, he looked in the pocket of the coat he wore that morning and saw that the crumpled letter was missing.